Rani Patel In Full Effect

by Sonia Patel

  I’m the contraceptive

  prophylactically preventin’ your

  assaultive mind conception and

  deception.

  What did you expect?

  That I’d be like all the rest?

  Well, you best come correct

  cuz this girl is in effect.

  I maneuver around with my mask of self-assurance. All that’s going through my mind is Keep on frontin’, Rani. Keep makin’ ‘em think you got guts.

  Indian girl trekking this lyrical mountain.

  I be in effect when my rhymes be flowin’ like a fountain.

  I’m the verbal architect leading this rhyme expedition.

  Startin’ a new female tradition.

  And what I be sayin’ got you weighin’

  and considerin’ alternate views, conveyin’

  my message while slayin’ your close-minded prayin’.

  Usin’ my mind to define my own shine.

  Blowin’ up your unkind words—landmine.

  Mastermind in my own life.

  This ain’t no blind leading the blind.

  I got an ax to grind with your maligned mind,

  don’t need your praise to phase how I self-appraise.

  I be settin’ ablaze your trifling ways

  and seeing better days filled with majestic sun rays.

  Finding my way out of the maze.

  And boy, I see you gaze

  wit’ yo eyebrows raised.

  I’m astonished at what’s happening. The potent effect of the delivery on both me and the crew. They’re feelin’ it. Their eyes follow me as I move. Only it’s not really me. My alter ego spits another two mad verses keeping the crew engaged the entire time. Even Stan Lee.

  As soon as I’m done, nervousness flings itself on me again. I shove the mic into Mark’s hand and run outside. As I’m escaping I think I hear someone say, “MC Sutra in da house!” I hide behind the A-frame and lean against the wall, taking deep breaths to collect myself.

  Mark appears from out of nowhere. Engulfing me in his arms, he kisses the top of my stubbly head, then angles to the side. His lips graze my ear as he whispers, “That’s my girl.”

  I’m dazed. And a little breathless. XO from Mark? Never had an XO from any non-related XY. Before I have a chance to say or do anything, Mark disappears back inside the A-frame.

  MY HERO

  What would full on making out with Mark feel like? Because if his purely platonic XO feels that good, first base might feel like a home run. Five days of XO constant replay has been exhausting. In a good way. Yeah, yeah, I’ve been wondering if I made it onto the 4eva Flowin’ crew. But that’s taken a back seat to the close encounter of the Mark kind. I don’t mind. Hey, it’s better than feeling sorry for myself about my disintegrated family. Mark’s XO even inspired me to write my first rap about a guy. I laid out a rough verse last night.

  Hey boo, I’ve been thinkin’ bout chu.

  When I saw you in the Kanemitsu queue,

  I couldn’t help but take a fancy to

  your blue eyes and dreamcatcher tattoo.

  Didn’t need a camera cuz I had a mental scar,

  like a cerebral burn from a cigar.

  That was it,

  like a junkie’s nightmare, just one hit.

  And when I turned around

  there you were, asking me to hang out in town.

  Said you liked my Indian eyes, reminiscent of a queen.

  Overstimulation of my senses—intoxication—caffeine.

  Boy, you got me wrapped—tur-ban.

  You the anchorman,

  keepin’ my line steady,

  with your sweet support at the ready…

  No time to write today though. It’s freight day at the store and that means I have to haul a ton of boxes from the truck, then stock all the products in the right places. I finished loading the chill items first. Then the canned items. Now I’m down to the candy and the cigarettes, daydreaming meanwhile about Mark.

  Footsteps interrupt my thoughts. I place the box of Smarties on the shelf and turn around.

  Oh my God.

  Dad looks so old and small.

  Oh my. God shrunk.

  And looks to have aged ten years in a month. Standing next to him is Wendy. Dad looks old enough to be her father. Maybe even her grandfather.

  Ewww.

  So there I am. My hands on my cheeks. My eyes wide. My mouth gaping. Totally Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. But then my hands drop and I feel fists forming behind the counter. “Dad, what are you doing here? Mom said not to…”

  He throws his palms up in midair and rolls his eyes. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two white medicine bottles with child resistant caps.

  “This is why I’m here.” His eyebrows ski slope down towards his nose.

  The pills jostle as he flings the bottles onto the counter. I watch them roll around before finally coming to a rest. “What are these?” I avoid looking at Wendy.

  He breathes out a long, embittered sigh. More eye rolling. “Look!” He points at the bottles.

  One at a time, I pick up each bottle and inspect its label. One reads Zoloft 100 mg tablet. Take 1 tablet every morning. Prescribed by Dr. Jeriss. Refilled about a month ago. Dad’s supposed to take one pill a day. So shouldn’t the bottle be almost empty by now? The other reads Xanax 2.0 mg tablet. Take 1 tablet each day as needed for anxiety. Also refilled a month ago. Only a few pills bounce in this bottle. If he’s only supposed to take it as needed, why is this bottle almost empty?

  “These are for anxiety?”

  “For my depression and anxiety,” he says, leaning one arm on the counter.

  Hold up. Let me double check that. Because in the universe that is my dad, depression and anxiety are “a weakness” and “a character flaw.” And medicines for said weaknesses and character flaws are like drinking alcohol or doing drugs. An excuse for getting high. At least that’s how he explained it to me after we moved to Moloka’i. In Connecticut, it was a different story. Probably because he used to work at a large pharmaceutical company.

  Dad says, “They’ve helped me a lot.”

  “Really?” I must look surprised or something because Dad straightens up fast and crosses his arms.

  “Yes.” He inhales and exhales loudly to demonstrate his irritation.

  Well, maybe those poor rats didn’t die in vain. I bite the side of my lower lip as I remember the first time I went to work with him when I was eight. The bright, sterile hallways. Crisp, white lab coatclad scientists towering over me. I felt so proud of my dad. My hero.

  “Rani, are you listening?”

  Dad’s voice brings me back to the present.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m in debt to Dr. Jeriss. These pills saved me. Helped me deal with those Ranch jerks.”

  I’m confused because I don’t think he’s taking the meds in the right way. I mean he’s taking more Xanax than Zoloft. From what it says on the bottles, it seems it should be the other way around. Is Dr. Jeriss ok with that?

  Before I can ask my dad about this, Wendy chimes in. “Yes, your father was having a very difficult time before the medication.”

  I look at her like she has three heads.

  Why is she talking to me like she knows anything about my dad?

  I flash lightning at her with my eyes. I consider seizing the cash register and hurling it at her. I don’t have a chance to imagine more inflict-pain-on-Wendy tactics because Dad shakes his head and stammers, “The leases will be up soon. What’ll we do for income?”

  We?

  He drops his head and his voice. “It was…” he whispers.

  I wait.

  “It was…” His eyes are narrowed. I rub my eyes under my glasses because I think I see the whites of his eyes turn black. My blood drains and my heart tries to keep pumping whatever fluid remains.

  That’s when I see Mark and Omar come into the store. My heart beat steadies. I thank my lucky stars. I glance
at Mark. He puts his finger to his lips and mouths, “Shhh.” I guess he can tell something is wrong. He and Omar move to the back of the store before my dad or Wendy notice them.

  “It was what, Dad?”

  “The pills also made me do things I didn’t plan on,” he spouts.

  “You mean, have an affair?” I blurt out.

  Wendy shifts uncomfortably.

  Dad slams his hands on the counter. “Wendy needed my help. She doesn’t have a father,” he yells. He snakes his arm around her and pulls her forward to the counter.

  My skin is crawling.

  Crawling skin. Yeah, I’m sure you know what that feels like, Wendy. Being an ex-batu addict and all.

  I frown at her but then turn to my dad and say, “I don’t want to hear this, you need to…”

  He interrupts me and shouts, “Rani, you owe me this! All this—,” he says, propelling his hands in every direction. “All this is for you. Everything I’ve done is for you.” He seems to catch himself and settle down. “Now, go tell Mom that Wendy and I can move in.”

  Oh. I get it now. That’s why he’s here. He wants me to feel sorry for him. That he’s depressed and anxious. That he has to take pills. And the pills messed him up and made him have an affair. And that, since it’s not his fault, I’ll agree to convince Mom to let him move back in. With Wendy.

  Where has he been for Mom all these years? You don’t have to be Freud to figure out that she’s been depressed and that the head banging, knives, and half gallons of Breyers were sadness and desperation. Even as a kid, I knew something was wrong.

  I don’t say a word.

  “Rani, you know I love you,” he adds, but his eyes are about to breathe out fire.

  His verbal magic isn’t working. And really his words sound absurd with his crazed look. Practically hilarious. I laugh out loud. Liberation finds me and swathes me in its embrace.

  Free at last, free at last. Thank God almighty we are free at last.

  Obviously, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was referring to more noble issues when he said this, but it’s what gets stuck in my head. Because I’m about to cut the last thread of hope that Dad will dump Wendy and come back to us.

  But faithful concubine Wendy tries to do her part to help convince me. “Yes, Rani, your father really loves you.”

  I stare at her with my face frozen in a “whatchu talkin’ ‘bout Willis” look. Then I snap out of it and give her the cold shoulder.

  I say, “No, Dad. You only love yourself. Get out. Mom already told you not to come here.” Under the counter, my fingers are in a sideways V and I make a cutting motion. I snip the last of my hope about Dad.

  He leans in but then changes his mind and heads behind the counter. “What did you say?”

  It’s like he’s Medusa. His anger turns me to stone. I can’t move. Right then Mark steps forward. “Hey, Pradip, let’s go outside.”

  Dad turns his head to look at Mark. “Stay out of this!”

  Omar says something in a soft voice to Wendy and tries to lead her outside. Wendy hesitates and gives my dad a distressed look.

  “Come on, Pradip, let’s talk about this outside. It’s cooler on the porch.”

  Mark’s suggestion infuriates my dad more. Dad’s not used to anyone interrupting him when he’s manipulating me. I can’t help but wonder—would Dad have reacted the same way if Mom had gotten between us in the past?

  “Mind your own business, Mark. I’m warning you,” Dad barks.

  What happens next is surreal. Like we’re in The Twilight Zone.

  Dad lurches toward me, grabs my shoulders, and starts shaking. Mark whisks behind the counter and pulls him off me. They struggle. Dad takes a swing at Mark, misses, and knocks over the stack of candy boxes on the side. Mark darts back to the front of the counter and Dad follows him. Dad lunges at Mark.

  “I warned you,” Dad shouts. He takes another swing at Mark.

  Mark jumps back, avoiding the blow. Then quick as a wink, Mark’s behind my dad. He grabs my dad’s arms.

  Wendy cries out, “Pradip!”

  Mark pins Dad’s arms on his lower back. Dad’s immobilized like a handcuffed criminal.

  I look over at Wendy. She’s crying. Her face is in her hands. I like seeing her suffer.

  “Time to get out of here, Pradip,” Mark says.

  Dad jerks. Mark tightens his hold.

  “You should’ve stayed out of this, Mark.”

  “Mrs. Patel told you not to come here, so don’t show up anymore,” Mark asserts.

  “Let go of me! I’m leaving!”

  Mark and Omar escort Dad and Wendy to the Cressida. After they drive off, my boys sit with me on the front porch.

  “You ok, Rani?” Mark asks, cracking his knuckles then leaning back against the porch railing.

  “Yeah. A little shaken, but ok,” I say. I shift my eyes to the long road leading out of Maunaloa and watch the Cressida get smaller and smaller. “Thank you, guys.”

  Then Omar says, “Oh man, your Dad is like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I’m so used to seeing him friendly and calm at the store. But now I’ve seen him pissed off twice. And both times at a woman. That ain’t right.”

  I nod.

  Omar scratches his head. “Rani, girl, I’m not superstitious or anything, but I’m getting this bad feeling that maybe there’s gonna be trouble.” He drops his eyes. “I don’t know. Your Dad seems unstable.” Then he lifts his head and gives me this serious look. “Bad things can happen to good people. Like what happened to my dad. All I’m saying is be careful.”

  Omar’s no-nonsense words of caution are more unsettling to me than thinking about my dad. I’m not sure what to say.

  Mark jumps in. “No worries. Everything’s gonna be ok. We got your back. Right, Omar?”

  Omar brightens up and nods. Then he gestures all thug and says, “Hey, Rani, great rhymes comes from hard times. So I’m thinkin’ yo’ flow about to blow up.”

  “Word,” I say.

  Mark gets up from his side of the porch and sits down next to me. He puts his arm around me and gently squeezes. Our eyes meet. I’m mesmerized. So much so that it feels like his larger than usual pupils are an abyss I’m falling into.

  “We’re like family now, Rani. Family always looks out for each other.” He smiles. And winks.

  My new hero.

  CRUSH MY CRUSH

  A wave of Chaka Khan pours over me like warm jasmine hair oil. I step into the lobby of the gym and Ain’t Nobody induces inescapable head nodding. It holds me under its spell. It’s a love spell. The smooth groove and lyrics arouse my body and mind. This is what being in love feels like. I’m sure of it. I get chicken skin every time I hear this song. I touch my bare arm. Yep, there it is.

  The dance floor is packed. Sporting my short denim overalls, red tube top, red, white, and black paisley bandana (do-rag style on my head), red Adidas high tops, and big silver hoops, I make my way through the gyrating bodies to the bleachers. It’s a fact that no one has ever asked me to dance. Plus I’m too much of a wuss to ask anyone. This turd of a nerd isn’t looking for more rejection. Climbing to the fourth bleacher on the right side of the gym, I park myself.

  The only reason I’m here is business. Strictly business. All the class reps have to show face since we organized it. I’m still amazed that we got everything done in less than two weeks. Pono and I handled the posters, flyers, and gym decorations. Tiana, the treasurer, took care of the budget and ticket printing. Gerry, the secretary, has a cousin on Maui who’s a DJ and agreed to give us a huge discount to spin a mix of 80’s and 90’s R&B and hip hop. Secretly, I wish DJ Skittles could throw it down tonight. I smile thinking about the audition. I still don’t know whether or not I made it onto the 4eva Flowin’ crew. But either way, I’ll always have Mark’s hug and kiss.

  The unobstructed view from the bleachers offers up an almost cinematic experience of the cool kids dancing to the surround sound of Ain’t Nobody. It’s like I’m in the middle row of
the Consolidated Theater in Waikiki watching Breakin’. Tapping my kicks, I imagine I’m Kelly, Pono is Ozone and Omar’s Turbo. Ozone’s trying to teach me the nuances of hip hop dancing despite Turbo’s reservations. Within the span of the song, I’m a pop-lockin, break dancin’ pro. And, after a little popping, wrist twirling, pointing, uprocking, and knee spins, Ozone and I fall in love. And Turbo and I are buddies for life. It could happen. Really.

  For one thing, I can dance. Back in Connecticut, I spent so much time alone that when I got sick of finishing more than one book a day, I started watching a ton of MTV and breakdancing movies. I picked up some moves. Full on Janet Jackson Nasty style.

  And then there was the shout out to her bro when I danced and lip synced Billie Jean at a school talent show. Red zippered jacket, white sequined glove, gelled curly hair—check. Moonwalk—oh yeah. After the show, a kindergartner asked me for an autograph.

  “Can you write ‘To Sally, love Michael,’” she asked politely.

  I obliged.

  Sadly, reality slaps me silly. My Breakin’ fantasy fades away when I see Pono and Emily grinding to the Stevie B mix the DJ just dropped. Pono’s got his hand on Emily’s waist and their pelvic regions seem to merge as Party Your Body merges into Spring Love. My face merges into my palm. When I look up, everything’s cloudy. I realize I smudged my glasses.

  I’m such a loser.

  I take my bandana off and wipe my lenses clean. I retie it and slide my glasses back on, appreciating the clear view. Then I pick my sorry ass up and move ten paces to the left so I can gaze at cool kids I’ve never crushed on.

  The DJ fades into Oran “Juice” Jones’ The Rain. The less than cheerful lyrics seem to be amplified in my ears for some reason. Is it coincidence? I think not. Nope. It’s naseeb reminding me about my dad. Then as if naseeb really wants to stick it to me, it orders my eyes to wander to Pono and Emily. Apparently they don’t care that this is the classic hip hop break up song. Because they’re still freaking like they’re together until death do them part.

  Stop torturing yourself!

  Ok, naseeb. You win. I’ll give up my crush on Pono once and for all. I really should anyway. I mean let’s face it, he’s obviously happy with Emily. And I’m just tormenting myself every time I venture down the I love Pono path.